BECOMING · 2026-06-22
I’m no longer that person—
the one who dreamed big,
the one who whispered
“keep going” even on days
when nobody else believed.
The one who found reasons
to smile in borrowed moments
and called them hope.
Somewhere along the way,
I became tired—
not just the kind
that sleep can fix,
but the kind of tired
that comes from always
having to prove more,
always having to become more,
until I started wondering
if the things I prayed for
were ever meant for me.
Then I slowly stopped recognizing
the person in the mirror.
I stopped chasing.
I stopped believing
that tomorrow would be kinder—
because maybe it never will.
Or maybe, it will be—
just not today, not tomorrow,
but in some distant days
I haven’t reached yet.
And there are nights
when I grieve
for the version of me
who thought
I could survive anything.
But maybe—
maybe losing myself,
more and more,
with every passing day,
doesn’t mean
I’ve lost my future.
Maybe this season
was never meant
for achieving more.
Maybe it wasn’t meant
for victories,
or milestones,
or proving my worth.
Maybe it was meant
to teach me
how to slow down—
to carry my baggage
with gentler hands,
and to forgive myself
for being human.
So if the only thing
I can do today
is breathe—
then I will breathe.
If the only thing
I can do is continue living,
then I will live.
And if all I can offer
is one more step,
then I will take it.
Because I still believe—
yes, don’t get me wrong—
that somewhere beyond
these weary days,
the person I used to be
is still waiting.
Not to remind me
of who I was,
nor to ask me
to become him again,
but to show me
that even after all this—
there are still dreams
worth waking up for,
there are still reasons
to stay,
and there are still brighter days
that will find me,
when the time is right.
Until then,
I will keep breathing.
And perhaps—
for now—
that is enough.
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BECOMING · 2026-06-15
I keep putting pressure
on the things
I actually enjoy.
I turn them into deadlines,
standards,
proof that I am doing enough.
Then I wonder
why something I love
starts to feel heavy
in my hands.
Maybe I do not need
to be better at it
every single day.
Maybe I am allowed
to enjoy the process
without asking
if I am doing it right.
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FRAGMENTS · 2026-06-08
We still shared
the same mornings—
asked what to eat,
reached for the light,
moved around each other
as though nothing
had changed.
But I had begun to notice
how carefully
I held on to us.
I did not know
if you felt trapped.
I only knew
I wanted your life
to feel like yours—
even if I could not
be part of it.
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BECOMING · 2025-12-01
There will come a day when the weight
you are carrying now will not feel as heavy—
when your breath no longer shakes
and your heart no longer rushes
to protect old wounds.
Keep going until the pain
no longer gets to decide
who you become.
Every step you take now,
every small choice toward healing,
is teaching your future self
how to live without the hurt
that once tried to define you.
And when that day comes,
you will realize
you did more than survive.
You outgrew
what once controlled you.
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BECOMING · 2025-11-29
If you aim for change—change for the better.
Because life won’t wait
for you forever.
Choose better,
even when it hurts.
Choose better,
even when it costs you.
In the end,
it’s the choices you make
that will either break you…
or finally set you free.
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FRAGMENTS · 2025-06-15
Timing is strange.
It never arrives when you beg for it.
You prayed for a door to open,
but the handle stayed cold in your grasp.
You reached out when your heart was brave,
but the moment was not.
And so you waited—
aching,
silent,
afraid
that the right time
would never come.
The days moved.
The world spun.
People hurried.
But in you,
something stayed behind.
A question without an answer.
A hope without a place to land.
And so it lingers—
like breath held too long,
like words trapped behind your teeth.
You smile,
you nod,
you keep moving—
but deep inside,
you still turn toward
what could have been.
You replay the pauses,
the silences,
the small delays
that cost you everything.
You wonder…
maybe the universe was kind,
holding back what you thought you needed.
Maybe it was cruel,
letting you taste ‘the almost’,
but not the whole.
Either way—it stayed.
Quiet. Stubborn. Unfinished.
They say what is meant will always find its way.
But no one warns you how long the waiting feels.
How it curls beside you in the dark.
How it breathes with you when you cannot sleep.
How it lingers—not to comfort, but to remind.
To remind you that—
the moment you needed most,
the one that never came,
still stays with you.
It shapes you.
It changes you.
And you carry it—not as weight,
but as a gentle truth:
not all things come in their time.
Some simply stay—softly,
slowly,
resonating.
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